


All That We Were

by Dracoduceus



Series: All That We Were, Are, and Will Come to Be [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alien!Hanzo, M/M, Nox the AI, Soulmate AU, Space Station Overwatch, Starship captain!McCree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24674431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracoduceus/pseuds/Dracoduceus
Summary: Prequel toAll That We Are.His instructions were deceptively simple: visit the planet Hanamura and bring back two of the sons of the famous Shimada Clan.McCree, captain of theSanta Feand an independent contractor that worked with theOverwatchspace station, should have known better than to think that anything about this would go according to plan.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Series: All That We Were, Are, and Will Come to Be [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1783924
Comments: 32
Kudos: 146





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the prequel to [All That We Are](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24327940), which I wrote for the [Resonance Soulmate Zine](https://twitter.com/mchanzine). Art was done by [IchigoWhiskey](https://twitter.com/ichigowhiskey).

“It is never a good thing when the commander requests your presence,” Nox said sourly as McCree leaned against the bulkhead to pull on his boot.

He had been told many times that showing up in his grease-stained clothes was unbecoming of the captain of a ship like the _Santa Fe_ and insulting to the commander. Nothing against Winston, but he wasn’t the “leader” type.

Truth be told, he wasn’t the “leader” type but he was doing a damn good job of stepping up to the plate. Maybe it was his science background—despite fumbling around, he was very clearly learning from his successes and mistakes.

And lately there were more of the former than the latter.

“I know, Nox,” McCree assured the AI as he pulled on his other boot and straightened his clothes. They were a little stale, with wrinkles from being packed away in his locker, but it wasn’t _terrible_ , and it wasn’t like Overwatch was an official thing anymore.

He patted the doorframe as he passed. “Lock up,” he told Nox. “You know the drill.”

Nox muttered petulantly to himself but there was a comforting finality to the way the hatch doors closed behind him. In truth, Nox was more upset that he couldn’t go along. He loved a good secret and summons like this reeked of it. 

A soldier met McCree at the bottom of the stairs and saluted smartly. The kid looked barely old enough to shave, much less be on a derelict space station like the _Overwatch_ , but McCree chose to ignore those thoughts. He nodded coolly at the kid who was momentarily paralyzed with indecision—did that count as a salute? Was McCree even a part of the chain of command? How did he proceed?

McCree felt bad for him. The kid was no soldier but nonetheless had signed his life away, had been wooed with the promise of starlight without realizing that space was cold and unforgiving in the wrong company. He hoped that the _Overwatch_ was the right company.

He wondered if the soldier was one of the ensigns temporarily assigned to the _Santa Fe_. After the catastrophic end to the Omnic Wars, it’s taken a lot of time to rebuild the _Overwatch_ station back to its former glory. Much of the station was uninhabitable, leading many to leave the station for safer areas.

It was sad that the Edge was considered safer than what was once a safe haven for all.

With the resurgence of crime and terrorist activity that the old _Overwatch_ had once protected against, there was a new movement to reinstate the station and its operatives. Now a new generation was taking over under the command of Winston, a former scientist with the old _Overwatch_. Unfortunately, book knowledge for pilots and ensigns did not translate at all to any kind of practical knowledge, which is where ships like the _Santa Fe_ came in. With scheduled staff rotations, it allowed for more people to be trained. The down side was that it meant that McCree, Nox, and the _Santa Fe_ were tied closely with the _Overwatch_.

After the incident with the _Blackwatch_ , he knew that it wasn’t a position that he wanted to be in. Still, he knew that his siblings loved the _Overwatch_ and believed deeply in its message. That was the only reason he was still around.

He walked past the kid and kept going, leaving him to mumble and stumble after McCree. “I know the way,” McCree told him gruffly. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“It’s not that,” the soldier protested. “Well, it is, but only because I was ordered to. I just really wanted to meet you, sir.”

McCree grunted. “Why’s that?” he asked, curious despite himself.

“They said you were on the _Overwatch_ back in the day,” the soldier blurted, struggling to decorously keep up with McCree’s long-legged stride. “I had a poster with you on it as a kid. Everyone was all pretty and heroic looking but you looked normal enough. Like…some nobody from Old Terra couldn’t be a hero but maybe…I could be like you.”

Ouch.

“Space ain’t all what the vids make it seem,” McCree told the soldier, who wasn’t even really a kid, tiredly. He had a baby face and eyes still full of wonder. “It’s hard work and danger just like everything else.”

The soldier’s smile faded but only a little. “I’m not afraid of work,” he insisted and McCree wanted to believe him. He hoped that idealism hadn’t brought the young soldier here, hoped that the kid was running away from farming or mining and thinking that soldiering for the _Overwatch_ was an easy gig.

“I hope not,” McCree said and meant it.

* * *

Commander Winston was an enormous man that dwarfed most others that McCree had met—including the enhanced soldiers he knew from the old _Overwatch_ crew. Despite his almost grotesque size, he was shy and soft-spoken.

In battle, he was as cold and calculating as they came. He rarely made it out into the field but the last time McCree had fought beside him, he’d seen Winston backhand an asteroid wolf and send it flying end over end.

It was for this reason that McCree always had to find ways to hide his smile whenever he walked into Winston’s office. He looked ridiculous folded into a desk chair that seemed far too small and weak to hold someone of his great bulk.

“Thank you for coming,” Winston told McCree, shaking his hand with both of his. McCree wondered if this was what babies and toddlers felt like when adults shook their hands. He nodded at the soldier that had followed McCree to the door. “Thank you.”

The soldier saluted Winston and fled. McCree was sure that he’d have a tall tale to tell his bunkmates later.

“Water? Tea?” Winston asked, closing the door behind McCree. “No, you prefer coffee, don’t you? I’m afraid I don’t have any in here with me.” He was fussing, pacing back and forth and making an already-small area much smaller with his constantly-moving bulk.

“I’m fine, thanks, Winston,” McCree assured him, pressing himself against a wall to keep from being trampled. “What’s so important—”

“Oh,” Winston said a little too-loudly and fidgeted. “Oh, please have a seat.” He gestured at the simple chairs with more grandeur than they deserved and sat down in his own chair, much to its sighing and groaning distress.

“What’s wrong, Wins?” McCree asked tiredly. “I’m in no mood to be jumping all over the place like this. Just give it to me straight.”

Winston fidgeted, sweated, and picked up a data-pad. Seeing it—and the distinctive shape of the security module attached to it—McCree could suddenly understand why Winston was so nervous. For him, this kind of security was novel and terrifying.

For McCree, it brought back uncomfortable memories and thoughts of people he wished he could forget.

“We…are formally commissioning the _Santa Fe_ ,” Winston said awkwardly. “And I’m asking as a friend that you _please_ accept this.”

McCree sighed, blowing out his cheeks. “Wins, it’s not that I’m against it, but—”

“Read it first,” Winston said. “And then make your decision. I just ask that you not discuss this with _anyone_.”

Sighing again, McCree took the data-pad from Winston and got as far as the first note.

_Destination: Hanamura._

“Hanamura?” McCree echoed, looking up at Winston. “Wins—”

“Hear me out,” Winston said quickly, lifting his large hands placatingly. “Please.”

McCree scrubbed his hand over his face and looked back at the data-pad. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”

Winston fiddled with the mug on his desk. “We...have received communication from one of the...uh...families on Hanamura.”

“Clans,” McCree corrected. 

“Yes,” Winston said awkwardly. He got up, shuffled to the small kitchenette, and made some tea in an electric kettle. 

Winston was a shy bastard, but he wasn’t _messy_ , and McCree watched him spill his water as he poured it. Not to mention, he was a cautious sort and was not accustomed to speaking without thinking about it first. If he was tongue-tied enough to forget one of the most well-known aspects of Hanamuran culture, it must be big. 

That fact alone left a sour taste in his mouth. 

The _Santa Fe_ was a middling-sized vessel, named for an abandoned city back on Old Terra. It was hardly a step above “derelict”. Nox said that it had character.

And it was _fast_ , faster than what most thought a ship like it could manage. McCree and Nox thought that it used to be some kind of pleasure vessel before it had been stolen a dozen times and modified to hide its identity. 

Most importantly, the _Santa Fe_ —and Nox—had been a lifeline. Without it, McCree wouldn’t have been able to escape the _Blackwatch_ , wouldn’t have been able to survive on his own. Without Nox, who was in turn bound to the _Santa Fe_ , he wouldn’t have the freedom he did now. 

He was no hero, was just a coward, but he wasn’t about to risk something so valuable. 

“Two very important dignitaries have agreed to review the _Overwatch_ ,” Winston said, breaking McCree out of his reverie. “Their cooperation would be...words cannot describe how valuable they would be.” Winston was talking quicker now, becoming excited. He sat back down in his chair and fiddled with his mug again. “Hanamuran delegates,” he said with helpless excitement. “Hanamuran delegates who could bring Hanamuran tech to the _Overwatch_! Or, even better, Hanamuran scientists!”

McCree scrubbed a hand down his face. He’d have to be stupid to not know how advantageous that would be, and he may be a fool, but he wasn’t truly stupid. “What’s the mission?” he asked, looking down at the data-pad. 

Winston’s excitement faded slightly. “Fly to Hanamura and retrieve the delegates,” he said simply. “Bring them back to the _Overwatch_.”

Suspicious, McCree squinted at Winston. It was a deceptively simple task. “That’s it.” 

“That’s it,” Winston confirmed, the rest of his excitement waning in the light of McCree’s obvious distrust. He fidgeted. Sweat was beading on his forehead. “There and back. A simple errand.” 

For a long moment, McCree was torn. He was tempted to remind Commander Winston that he isn't their errand boy and was opening his mouth to do so when he saw the commission price at the bottom of the page. If he could bear to part with the _Santa Fe_ , if he could manage to remove Nox intact, it would be more than enough to buy an entirely new ship, brand new—hell’s bells, he could probably buy himself a luxury ship, commissioned to his exact specifications. He’s not greedy but the sum of money was enough to make his head spin.

“It is a portion of what they are giving us,” Winston told him very carefully, clearly guessing what he was looking at, what had made him stop in his tracks. “To give you an idea of how… _important_ this task is. We need those dignitaries here. Hanamura tech is on par with Vishkar—and if we can establish a rapport with Hanamura, Vishkar might be interested enough to follow.”

McCree scrubbed a hand down his face. Currently, _Overwatch_ was running on fumes and a large portion of the station was inoperable. Getting even one of those great tech producers on board with their project would be extremely advantageous for the station.

“The situation is much more…sensitive than simply that,” Commander Winston told him carefully. “And here, I am putting my trust in your discretion, as this is not something for the common ensign to know.”

Secrets.

Big ones.

McCree hated them for the trouble they caused, but Nox loved a good secret. It was like crack to the damn thing.

“The…dignitaries that have requested access to _Overwatch_ ,” Winston said cautiously. “They are the two oldest sons of the Shimada Clan.”

Shimada. Despite himself McCree whistled, impressed. Weapons, his mind supplied helpfully. Defensive tech. Infiltration. Black Ops teams _dreamed_ of working with Shimada tech. It had always amused McCree that Shimada had also been well known for their artistic pieces—they were beauty and death all in one.

That the two oldest sons were being sent told McCree that the Shimada were very interested in working with _Overwatch_ —traditionally, Hanamuran women were the brilliant minds and scientists who created the tech; the men served as their mouths to outsiders. Sending _two_ of the oldest sons of the clan was an enormous concession, better by far than sending the average negotiator that such deals might normally warrant.

His mind raced and his stomach felt cold and oily with fear. Shimada Clan was a major producer of Hanamura tech; their _two oldest sons_ were important figures. “Shouldn’t this warrant a fleet? Not just a shitty rust bucket like the _Santa Fe_?”

Winston sighed, his shoulders drooping. “It wasn’t an easy decision,” he admitted. “Do I send _all_ of our ships or do I send a small group? But…” he rubbed a hand down his face. “We’re run thin— _very_ thin. A handful of ships are still in the shuttle bays for repairs. More are needed to send support—biotics, supplies, engineers, the works—to colonies at the Edge. There aren’t many that we can spare and…there aren’t many freelancers that we can trust with this kind of assignment.”

Sighing, McCree leaned back in his chair. “I’ll need a new crew,” he said after a moment of deliberation. It wasn’t a matter of _if_ he’d take the job, really—just what he’d need to complete it. He knew what the station meant to his siblings. “The ensigns you gave me won’t cut it. I’m requiring all of them to have certs at least at Combat II and Engineering II—no, level III in both.”

Winston scribbled down a note. “I will forward candidates to Nox for you to review,” he said. “Any other requirements?”

Mind racing, McCree nodded. “I’ll need an upgrade—nothing major,” he assured the commander when he frowned. “I need a shield boost. If we can keep the engines from being destroyed, the _Santa Fe_ can outrun most other small- and middling-sized vessels. And supplies.”

“Requisition order sent,” Winston assured him. “What else?”

The speed that everything was being approved was intoxicating. McCree struggled to keep his requests reasonable, to not get greedy. “We need to retrofit two areas in the ship for Hanamuran habitation. I’ll need—”

“The xenobiologist Dr. de Santos will meet you at the _Santa Fe_ in two hours.”

McCree shot Winston a finger-gun with an ease that he didn’t truly feel. “I’m set for now. If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”

“We will have the repairs we discussed completed by tomorrow afternoon,” Winston said, glancing at the screen in front of him. No doubt his AI, Athena, was sending him updates on request processing. “Current estimate is 1200 hours with a suggestion that it may be completed sooner. Once you have everything ready, have Nox send Athena an update—keep the subject of your visit and your projected flight plans a secret.”

Nodding, McCree stood and left—since he was not technically a part of _Overwatch_ , he didn’t need to salute or wait for a formal dismissal. Not that Winston required such from him—McCree had too much history with _Overwatch_.

“Well look who’s returned,” Nox drawled as he climbed aboard the _Santa Fe_. “I had almost expected to learn that you had run off into the dark corners of _Overwatch_.”

Despite the oily feeling of fear that was still filling his gut, McCree laughed. “As if I could leave you behind, Nox.”

“Good,” the AI sniffed. “I would be forced to follow you, if only so I could kill you myself. So, tell me, O Captain, My Captain.” McCree rolled his eyes. “Why is Athena sending me documents with a notice to choose a new crew?”

McCree wrinkled his nose. “Hard lockdown, Nox. I’ll tell you only when we’re secure.”

The speakers whistled and McCree rolled his eyes. These days, Nox sounded almost human—a terrifying thought in the days after the Crisis, but this was _Nox_. He could never be afraid of Nox, not after all they’d been through.

“That’s tough shit,” Nox said. “You know I hate doing that.”

“Wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

The AI made a popping sound through the speakers—his equivalent of a grunt. “I know,” he complained. “I’m just saying. I don’t like the secrecy.”

“Yes, you do,” McCree argued, rolling his eyes. “Are we secure?” Nox grumbled but confirmed that everything was locked down. Just to be safe, McCree climbed into the cockpit and then the sealed room that housed Nox’s core. The doors sealed behind him. “Next stop: Hanamura,” he told the AI, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Nice this time of year,” Nox drawled. “We will arrive at the height of the season called _hanami_. An auspicious time for visitors—or perhaps simply a good time to visit, as the trees will be flowering.”

A satellite map of Hanamura appeared. Once upon a time it had been a planet similar to what McCree knew of Old Terra, with large land masses sticking above the waters. Sea levels rose until only the tallest mountains poked above the blue waters like islands. McCree had been there once, had served another clan as the bodyguard for their daughter until she was married off to another clan. He remembered that he had liked the climate: not too hot, not too cold, not too humid.

“How long will we be staying?” Nox asked.

McCree made a face. “With hope, not long. We’re playing courier. Picking up two dignitaries.”

“Why is _Overwatch_ sending us to the capitol?” Nox wondered. “Even on Hanamura there are bounty hunters—and there are minor clans all over the place looking to fund their research.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” McCree grumbled. “No, we’re not going to the capitol—we’re going to the Shimada Clan.” He let Nox process that for a moment. “We’re to pick up the Clan’s two oldest sons and bring them to _Overwatch_.”

The AI was quiet for a long moment. “Fuck,” he said at last. Then, “tell me more.”

McCree did, and then told him the commission they were promised.

“This is a trap,” Nox opined.

Sighing, McCree slumped to the ground and stared up at the reinforced metal ceilings. “Yeah. And we’re fucking stupid enough to go after it.”

“Yup.”

McCree let himself have a moment to think about all of the terrible choices he’d ever made in his life. This would take the cake. Then he sat up and found that Nox had already loaded the dossiers of their crew candidates and displayed them in front of him.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s start with…this guy. Shit, is his name really _Dick Stane_?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree regrets taking Dick Stane with him to Hanamura.

The name should have been a warning, but in his defense, Dick really _did_ have a lot of valuable credentials. It just turned out that he really was, in fact, a dick—to use an archaic phrase.

There were only three things he loved in all the universe: himself, his dick, and his gun—in that order.

Unfortunately, the flight to Hanamura took a few Standard days, even with how fast the _Santa Fe_ flew—even longer with a crew that wasn’t used to working the _Santa Fe_. It’s fortunate that McCree was used to catching cat-naps as much as he was or they never would have gotten out of berth.

Time was of the essence though, and McCree didn’t like that Commander Winston couldn’t tell him why—and he wasn’t sure which he liked better: that he wasn’t on the short need-to-know list, or if the commander didn’t know, either.

“What an ugly place,” Dick said cheerfully as he sent them into their reentry path and began closing the shields over the viewport. McCree itched to do it himself and momentarily considered asking Nox to disable controls to Dick’s terminal, but he conceded that it was probably just because he hated the smug little prick. He seemed to have it well in hand and though he fumbled at the controls, it was reasonable to assume that it was simply because he wasn’t used to a model like the _Santa Fe_.

Not to mention, Nox was doing most of the work now that the shields were in place.

Really, almost all of the work. 

That was reassuring, at least.

“I mean, give me a space station any day,” Dick continued, and the Engineer beside him, Morrison (no relation to the famous Strike Commander from the Crisis), rolled her eyes. “No dirt, no grit, no pesky rain unless you wander into Ag for a quick roll in the hay—literally.” He laughed obnoxiously at his own joke and turned to look at McCree.

McCree was tempted to ‘Lock him—if Dick was one of his own and he wasn’t affiliated with _Overwatch_ , he probably would have. It just spoke to his arrogance that he turned away and therefore he was of little use to McCree in the long run.

He made a note—one of fifteen already logged in his personal terminal—to mention it to Commander Winston when they returned to _Overwatch_. If their mission wasn’t quite so dire, he would have had Nox send a databurst to Athena after the first day in the stars.

“I’ve spent a good amount of time on Hanamura,” McCree said neutrally. “I liked it. Their season-of-falling-petal-snow is really quite lovely. Eyes to your station.”

Dick wrinkled his nose. “Another thing, Cap,” he said as he turned back. “They got all that flowery language. Don’t think you’re up to the task of talking.”

“Didn’t he just say that he spent ‘a good amount of time’ here?” Morrison demanded. “Shut up and eyes to your station.”

McCree pinched the bridge of his nose and prayed to all the saints—and for good measure the angels and demons—that he could think of for patience. It was just as well that they entered Hanamuran atmosphere: the roar of entry, of the crackle of _Santa Fe_ ’s shielding, drowned out all noise.

“Nox, set course for Shimada,” he ordered when they stopped shaking and the main viewport opened to reveal the lavender sky of Hanamura.

“Setting course, Captain,” Nox intoned, forced to play the part of benign ship’s computer. A small price to pay for Baptiste to be on their crew. He was a veteran combat medic from the Second Omnic War, an engineer that designed his own med kits, weapons, and armor, and a hobbyist xenobiologist and was someone that McCree absolutely could not afford to turn down for this mission.

It was another hour, during which time Dick made no less than four sex jokes and made reference to finding some Hanamuran “lady-folk” to seduce. McCree was sorely tempted to lock him in quarters.

“Message incoming from Shimada,” Nox intoned. “Docking instructions included.”

“Obey docking instructions,” McCree ordered. “Patch the message through.”

The main viewport turned opaque and soon the image of a male Hanamuran appeared on the screen. He said something in his own language and after a few moments, Nox’s translations came through: “Greetings, _Santa Fē_ ,” he said. “I am The Shimada.”

This was the song and dance that McCree was used to and before Dick could say anything, he said in Standard, “Greetings, Shimada. I am The _Santa Fe_.”

If The Shimada was surprised that he knew such customs, he did not show it—not that McCree was surprised, as facial expressions were not a way to express oneself in Hanamuran culture, and his tail was not visible to judge his composure. His horns were decorated in silver leaf and adorned with branches of their famous trees, which were blooming now—this Shimada was _very_ high on the hierarchy; and, if McCree wasn’t mistaken, the only one higher would be his mate.

This was indeed _The_ Shimada, the male leader of the clan.

“Greetings, _Santa Fē_ ,” The Shimada said again. “Why have you come?”

“I come to greet you,” McCree replied. “It is a lovely day of falling-petal-snow.”

The Shimada regarded him for a while and McCree wondered if there had been a miscommunication somewhere, and if the plan to fetch The Shimada’s sons had been cancelled. At last he bowed his head—only slightly, for he still ranked McCree as the lord of the clan—in greeting. “It is a lovely day of falling-petal-snow,” he agreed and the knot in McCree’s chest released. 

* * *

The Hanamuran party that greeted them was entirely male, but McCree was not surprised. Males, of course, were the negotiators—females were the scientists that made the breakthroughs that made their tech so highly sought-after.

McCree led his own group and paused a polite distance away and looked over the other party, his mind racing.

The leader of the group was a dark-haired male whose horns were ornamented in delicate gold leaf—very high ranking, as the gold leaf took time, patience, and multiple sets of hands to apply every morning. He wore a necklace of delicate pink flowers, another sign of his rank: the leading pair of the clan ornamented their horns with fresh branches as well as silver leaf; their children, and those considered to be next in line for leadership, wore these ornaments around their necks.

Despite their delicate appearance, McCree was very sure that the flowers decorating the male’s neck were metal, not organic like his parents or clan leaders would wear—this was a time to show off the clan’s wealth and skill with metals, after all.

Behind him was another male that was slightly taller. His horns were decorated in gold enamel instead but the tips of his horns were already showing wear, the dark brown tips showing through. Unlike the leader of the group who remained as still and austere as a statue, he seemed to be in constant motion: his tail thrummed and clicked as it swayed from side to side, the thin metal decorations chiming and humming as they struck each other or the metal wires strung between the spines of his tail.

There were three guards flanking them: two of them bore decorations of pale pink flowers along their shoulders and collar, marking them as guards of the ruling family. The third was human and as such bore no decorations.

McCree struggled with his dismay. From the logo on her uniform shirt, she was Talon. Good soldiers and fighters, to give credit where credit was due, but little better than mercenaries—in the worst implication of the word. Their regard was bought by the highest bidder…as was their humanity.

From the way she held herself she was new; from the arch of his tail and the curl of his fingers over his fan, the male leader did not appreciate her proximity to him.

The male leader stepped forward; when the female guard made to follow in his shadow, he made a sharp, cutting motion for her to remain in place. She scowled and moved to attention; the other guards ignored her, slipping into their form of rest as was polite for greeting guests.

“ _I greet you,_ Santā Fē,” the male leader said smoothly in Hanamuran. “ _Welcome to the home of the Shimada Clan._ ” He tapped the closed tip of his fan to his lips and snapped it open with a loud _crack_ ; he extended the open fan, parallel to the ground, like a platter—inviting McCree to speak as well.

“He’s saying—” Dick began and McCree found it far too amusing that he had to make a similar motion that the male had made to the Talon guard. The other gold-horned male seemed amused as well, tapping his closed fan against his sternum in a Hanamuran laugh.

He stepped forward and tapped two of his fingers on his left hand to his mouth, opened his fingers to mimic a fan, and extended his hand. “I greet you, Shimada,” he said in Standard.

“ _We do not understand each other,_ ” the lead male said in Hanamuran, though it was clear that this was not the case. His eyes had glittered with understanding when McCree spoke in Standard and McCree fought to keep his face neutral. It was important, so very important, to follow this ritual. Not doing so would be shameful in many ways. “ _Let us find common ground between us first._ ”

The second male stepped forward and dipped a hand into the wide belt around his waist. When his hand emerged, he held a small metal disk. It hopped into the air and floated in the air between the lead male and McCree, emitting a soft blue light in a large ring.

“ _Is this sufficient to find common ground between us?_ ” the male asked in his language; a moment later, a voice with a similar cadence, coming from the device, repeated the phrase in Standard.

McCree closed his fingers and tapped his nose. “You honor us,” he said in Standard, ignoring the hungry way that the Talon guard stared at the device. Behind him, Dick whistled appreciatively.

The male leader’s tail twitched, making the charms there click against each other. “ _I would like to invite you to a meal between friends where you may rest from your journey,_ ” he said neutrally.

“We would be honored to accept your invitation,” McCree replied after a pause to let the translator do its job. “May we know the name of our host?”

The male leader tapped the side of his jaw with his closed fan then snapped it open so that the edge hovered at the point of his chin. It was an “expression” that was foreign to humans, a very deliberate and feigned embarrassment. “ _I am called—_ ” his name defied translation, as did most Hanamuran names, but much to McCree’s surprise the translator referred to him as “Hanzo”.

An intriguing thing, the translator. Most outside of Hanamura were headsets or something similar; in Hanamura, they were typically referred to as “chips”, though they were more accurately described as pins that were fastened to the collar. This hovering device though…McCree bet that if he were to step outside of the blue circle, he would no longer be a participant and the device wouldn’t translate what he said.

They were bound by certain conventions, however—one of which was that it did not typically translate names very well.

Names in Hanamuran translated closer to short poems in Standard. Most also had a shortened version, and the when they gave this name was dependent on the Hanamuran. Some gave it in lieu of their full name, especially for friends-of-friends or -family, or when interacting with non-Hanamurans. Even then, they typically called themselves by their full names first and then offered a shortened version—like introducing a full legal name, and then suggesting that they be called a nickname.

It was strange that the male’s name—Hanzo, he had asked to be called _Hanzo_ —was immediately translated into this shortened version. Perhaps it was simply that it would be simpler and less likely for McCree to embarrass himself by attempting to repeat it back, as was custom.

“Hanzo,” he said back. “I greet you, Hanzo. You may call me Jesse.” From experience, it was slightly easier for Hanamurans to pronounce “Jesse” …and when they attempted “McCree”, it sounded more like the word for “the sound of warfare”, which made many Hanamurans uncomfortable.

“ _I greet you, Je-see_.”

The other male’s tail lashed impatiently, reminding McCree of one of Brigitte’s cats. The major difference between him and Brigitte’s cats was that the male had pieces of metal clinking together on his tail, making the space between them ring with—to humans—discordant sounds of clattering metal.

From the way one of the guards’ ears twisted uncomfortably, it might not have sounded very nice to them, either.

“ _Let us eat_ ,” Hanzo said and gestured with the hand that held his fan to McCree’s right. He led the way to a human-style table that was built with Hanamuran scale in mind.

Much to McCree’s fascination, the translator followed, hovering in the neutral space between them.

He said nothing about the table being much larger than he was used to and climbed in place. It was rude to point out and he glared at Dick until he closed his mouth. “Thank you for your hospitality,” McCree said.

Hanzo’s tail chimed and he bowed his head slightly; the other male climbed into a seat beside Hanzo while the guards ranged behind them. The human guard, looking like she had sucked on something sour, stood off to the side.

Because Hanamurans believed that barter could not occur during meals, the other male Hanamuran leaned forward. “I am Genji,” he said in passable Standard. “How do youdo?” McCree wondered what Dick’s face must look like but he didn’t dare look away. 

Hanzo made an annoyed sound as servants came out bearing trays of food. He held a hand up and the translator sank down to the table where it appeared to turn off.

“We are brothers,” Genji continued as the servants placed large plates and bowls down in front of each setting. “I am younger brother.”

McCree gestured to the group with him. “These are some of my crew,” he said, cleaning as much of his accent as he could from his voice. From the way Genji spoke, it seemed that he was still not used to Standard.

It could also be a trick.

“Your ship looks weird,” Genji said cheerfully.

Hanzo made a scolding sound that his brother ignored. “It is a ship that we are not used to,” Hanzo told Genji. “Do not be rude.”

“Can we see it?” Genji asked.

Turning, Hanzo said something in Hanamuran that was too low and too quick for McCree to understand. Genji gave a full-body flinch. “The food is good for Hanamuran tastes,” Hanzo said carefully. McCree noticed that he spoke with much less confidence than Genji, but given his demeanor in comparison to his brother, perhaps that was simply the way he was. “But if it does not suit human tastes, I apologize. Please let us know.”

McCree grinned. “I’ve been to Hanamura before,” he assured Hanzo. “I like the food a lot.”

For some reason that seemed to make Hanzo very happy and he placed his left hand—he had tucked his fan back in his belt to eat—against his cheek in a smile.

The food was good—leaves dipped in spiced sauces, skewers of roasted vegetables dipped in a sticky sauce—and all staples of standard Hanamuran diet. Much to McCree’s pleasure, there were also the cold noodle dishes that he had enjoyed the last time he had been planetside, which were served in cold broth. At the end of the meal the servants provided a dish that McCree had seen before but had never been able to try: a kind of fried dumpling that the Shimada cooks served attached to a string. There was something in it that made it float like a balloon and once Genji realized that neither McCree nor the other humans had never tried it, he was excited to show them what to do.

The “balloon” was a bit of fried dough stuffed with sweet beans and seeds. It expanded as it cooked and then the cooks used a bit of clever cookery and science to replace the neutral gas that was a byproduct of cooking with something that would allow it to float.

Genji’s favorite way to eat it was to shove the end of the rope—which was also edible—into his mouth to eat while he pulled apart the “balloon” and let the gas escape.

The texture was unnerving—it was chewy in a way that he hadn’t expected—but McCree found it pretty tasty, despite feeling like he was gnawing on a piece of rubber.

“You have been to Hanamura before?” Hanzo asked as he lingered over the dessert. He had chosen to eat the artful confections made of sweet legumes, pounded starch candies, and nut pastes. Even though the meal was not a part of negotiations, it was still a way to show off the skill of Shimada chefs and their mastery of their art. 

McCree bowed his head slightly as he selected one of the candies as well. This one was in the shape of Hanamura’s famous pink flowers. “I have,” he said. “I had the honor of serving as a guard for another clan.” 

This seemed to intrigue Hanzo. “Is that how you learned Hanamuran customs?” 

“I also understand some of the language,” McCree admitted. “I am a bit rusty. Out of practice.” 

Genji leaned around Hanzo to look at McCree. He said something to Hanzo that was too fast for McCree to interpret. The look Hanzo gave his brother could only be described as poisonous—hilarious and baffling given that Hanamurans did not typically express emotions in a way that humans could easily interpret. 

This seemed to amuse the younger male because he tapped his fingers against his sternum in a Hanamuran laugh. Genji said something that McCree couldn’t understand—he was still speaking far too quickly—but it sounded teasing. 

A part of McCree wanted to be hurt that he couldn’t understand Genji very well, but he knew that it was normal for such things. He was, admittedly, a little out of practice with the Hanamuran language, and Genji _was_ speaking very quickly—especially for a Hanamuran.

But there was something that he did catch that made McCree very curious. “ _You should tell him. He deserves to know, even if humans don’t have the tails to make music._ ” 

The last was a common phrase he’d heard the last time he was on the planet. A Hanamuran’s tail was important to their identity—as humans had unique fingerprints, a Hanamuran had unique patterns in the spines on their tails. They were also an important part in Hanamuran culture, and were a part of many bonding ceremonies and seen as a symbolic way of bridging a gap between two people, or two groups of people—people that can make music together cannot also make war. 

It was one of the reasons why Hanamurans were rather distrustful of humans. They could not make music with humans in the Hanamuran tradition—not to mention humans and Hanamurans both had very different definitions of “music”—so how could they commit to peace? How could they be trusted? 

The phrase was also used to refer to their differences. It was used to mean, and McCree was certain that this was really what Genji meant, that “humans aren’t like us”. 

McCree had heard it many times before, and it was rarely meant with true malice, but it still hurt. 

Genji looked at him and then back at Hanzo. “ _Tell him or I will that you are_ —” and Genji used a word that McCree didn’t immediately recognize. “ _Tell him because he is human and he cannot hear it like you do._ ” 

One of the Hanamuran guards stepped closer. “ _Young masters,_ ” he said. “ _The Shimada wishes to speak with you._ ” He said something else that McCree couldn’t catch because Genji was speaking quickly, urgently. 

Hanzo’s tail snapped, the decorations—fewer than McCree had expected to see—jangled loudly. The guards and Genji both winced and the Talon guard squinted at them, trying to follow along and listen in. 

“ _Be silent_ ,” Hanzo said in Hanamuran. “ _Inform him that we will be there shortly. Forward the information to the ship so that they may fly over as well._ ” 

The guard looked as scandalized as McCree had ever seen a Hanamuran. He opened his mouth to protest but Hanzo tilted his head in a gesture that very clearly said _obey me_. The guard bowed and moved away, typing something into a handheld communication device. 

Hanzo turned back to McCree. “The Shimada has requested your visit. I have asked to have the location sent to the _Santa Fē_.” 

“It will be an honor to meet The Shimada,” McCree murmured, mind racing. The Shimada, the head of the Clan, did not meet just _anybody_. And from the way the guard had said it, this was not a planned request. 

Nodding, Hanzo and Genji both stood and McCree scrambled to get to his feet as well, as was polite. 

“I look forward to seeing you there,” Hanzo told McCree in Standard. 

Mutely, McCree nodded. “It will be our honor,” he said in Standard. With one last look at McCree that seemed to convey a message that he didn’t understand, Hanzo turned and with his entourage of guards and his brother, walked away. 

“Boss,” Dick said softly when they were well out of earshot. “A meeting with _The_ Shimada?” 

“A meeting where we go to meet him, no less,” Baptiste said. “That is a very…an _incredibly_ high honor.” 

Clan leaders did not negotiate with anyone but other Clan leaders except for very rare instances. The Shimada had been talking to Winston, the Commander of the _Overwatch_ station as he would be considered a Clan leader. For him to want to talk to McCree? Impossible. 

Or it should have been. 

McCree wondered if this had anything to do with the secret that Genji had been speaking to Hanzo about. He said none of this to the crew, though—he had the feeling that the only person that he could trust with this secret was Nox. 

“Wrap up,” he said. “Back to the ship. Let’s not keep The Shimada waiting.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was a child, I used to think jian dui were balloons that didn't want to fly or perhaps had already deflated enough that they wouldn't, like how a balloon a few days old wouldn't float anymore. Even when they were pretty fresh I thought that maybe they deflated really quickly and that's why I had never seen them floating. I remember learning how to make them from our pastor and asking him how we catch the jian dui when they flew up out of the oil like balloons. He thought it was cute; I didn't appreciate him making fun of me when I was disappointed that the jian dui didn't fly away. They were still tasty, though. 
> 
> Otherwise, the meal they eat is inspired by plates of vegetable tempura and fried shiso leaves. As much as I love shrimp tempura, the vegetables were always my favorite. 
> 
> In any event, I hope you enjoyed it. I have a lot of fun with stories like these. 
> 
> Feel free to come and find me on twitter as well at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus).
> 
> ~DC


	3. Chapter 3

“Boss,” Dick Stane whispered as they began their final approach to the great gardens of the Shimada Clan. 

McCree stood, staring out of the front viewport in awe. “Yeah,” he breathed. 

Before them lay a sprawling vista of Hanamura’s famous pink flowers, planted on large plateaus. They were directed to fly through a gap of rocks and trees which opened into what may have once been a caldera but was now filled with an elaborate garden and pond. 

According to the directions that had been sent to Nox, there was a small landing area, which McCree noticed had two small skiffs. As Nox flew them over the picturesque gardens, McCree could see three figures standing over a low bridge: three males, two with horns decorated in gold and the third with branches of vibrant pink flowers adorning his horns. 

Most importantly, McCree noticed that there were no guards nearby, no retainers. As they came for a landing, McCree saw the guards from lunch standing beside one of the skiffs, waiting for their arrival. 

“You all stay here,” McCree told the crew as they moved to stand. 

“But boss,” Dick protested and Morrison hissed at him to shut up. “No, you need us with you.” 

McCree looked down his nose at Dick. “Stay with the ship,” he said firmly. “There are no guards with The Shimada or his sons. To bring guards with me would insult them. If you were as proficient in Hanamuran language and customs as you profess to be, you would know this.” 

Rearing back, Dick looked as surprised as if McCree had slapped him. Before he could protest, Baptiste said, “A few of us should go outside to interact with the guards. It would only be polite.” 

Pleased, McCree nodded. “You will be lead; choose your group,” he ordered. “The rest of you remain on the ship. Nox, full lockdown, confirm.” 

From the way Baptiste’s lips twitched, he clearly suspected that Nox was more than just a mere ship’s AI. “Confirmed,” Nox said neutrally. 

“Morrison,” Baptiste said. “We are talking about some of the universe’s greatest engineers. Even the males are incredibly talented in the arts of technology and engineering.”

McCree nodded. “Granted. Anyone else?” 

“Siebren,” Baptiste said.

Surprised, McCree blinked. “Siebren?” Siebren was an older man that McCree had somewhat reluctantly allowed on the ship. He was a brilliant physicist who was a bit scatterbrained in a way that was _not_ endearing. 

Some people called him Sigma as a mean joke—his distractedness was often the sum of their problems.

Baptiste nodded confidently. “One of his hobbies includes xeno-horticulture.”

Looking back out over at the gardens, McCree nodded and had to agree that the suggestion made a lot of sense. Hanamurans prized their art as much as their science—for them, it went hand-in-hand. The private guards of the leaders of the clans were often known for their expertise in gardening, in botany, in the care and raising of fish for the large ponds that were often the centerpiece of the clans’ private gardens.

Here, art and science were not opposing forces, as many other societies seemed to believe; on Hanamura, art was as much science as science was art.

Siebren would do well, McCree agreed in the privacy of his own brain. He was far from a pacifist, but his laid-back attitude would be more in their favor than nearly anyone else on their borrowed crew. There were others that he would have chosen, but they had not been on the crew assigned to this mission.

“Very well,” McCree said. “Anyone else?”

Baptiste shook his head. “Anyone else I would have chosen is not on this mission,” he said, echoing McCree’s own thoughts.

“Very well,” McCree said again. “Find Siebren and update him. Morrison, you’re with Baptiste.” Morrison saluted. “The rest of you, stay here and don’t cause trouble.” The _Santa Fe_ shuddered and groaned as it landed, settling down on its four sturdy pads as Nox turned off the engines. “Nox, lock up.”

“Confirmed,” Nox said.

McCree straightened his clothes and led the way down to the airlock. Morrison eyed his uniform. “May I?” she asked, holding out her hands. At his nod, she came close and helped him to arrange the shirt more securely on him, adjusted his collar. “Honestly,” she said. “Sir, are you just a slob? How did this get wrinkled already?”

Despite himself, McCree smiled. He’d worked with Morrison once before—which was why she was slightly more comfortable with him—and occasionally read up on her work when he could spare a moment. Her partners were both in the fashion industry so she was pickier about clothing and fabric than he would have expected from someone that had a tendency to be ended up covered in oil and grease.

She tugged once more on his clothes and then stepped back. “Get yourself measured for another shirt,” she said. “This one doesn’t fit you properly. And you’re wearing out the seams, so you’ll need a new one soon. Sir.”

McCree flashed a smile at her as she stepped back. “Will do.”

A moment later, Baptiste and Siebren appeared, the latter in a rumpled uniform. Morrison grunted and immediately went to fix the older man’s clothes. “Honestly!” she said as Siebren submitted to her with a shy little smile. “What is _with_ you guys?”

“At least it’s not covered in grease,” Siebren said. “Or dirt. I was in Hydroponics. Captain, may I speak with you later about other plants to add to your lab? There are a few plants that I had recently done research on that shows a dramatic increase in oxygen production and—”

McCree held up a hand and the older man stopped. “We can discuss that later,” he promised. “Did Baptiste tell you why we’re here?”

Siebren nodded. “We are going to meet the guards of the Shimada Clan.”

“Oversimplified, but yes,” McCree agreed. “The Shimada—specifically the male head of the clan—has decided that he wishes to speak with me. As a show of good faith, I will take my ‘guards’—that is, you three—down to interact with _his_ guards.”

The three of them nodded, even though Morrison and Baptiste already knew this. McCree knocked on the doors of the airlock. “Open up, Nox.” To the three behind him, he said, “Remember that you represent the _Santa Fe_ ,” he said in a low voice as the door groaned open. “And most importantly, you represent the _Overwatch_.”

“The Shimada intends to send two of his sons to the _Overwatch_ ,” Baptiste reminded them. “So we need to make a good impression.”

The doors finished opening and they walked down into the gardens.

“Greetings,” one of the guards said in impeccable Standard. “The Shimada will see you, Captain. Down that path.” he gestured to a nearby decorative gate that led into the gardens proper.

McCree nodded at him. “Stay here,” he told his “guards” for the sake of The Shimada’s. All three saluted as he turned and began walking toward the gate. He took a deep breath and walked into the gardens.

* * *

The Shimada looked more like his younger son, Genji, than he did Hanzo. His horns were more magnificent in person than they were on the vid screen, decorated in delicate silver leaf and the branches of Hanamura’s famous trees. It brought a sweet smell to the air around him.

To the side, the translation disc hovered.

“Greetings,” The Shimada said as McCree stopped a polite distance away.

McCree bowed in the way he had learned the last time he had been to Hanamura. The Shimada seemed amused by this, though he didn’t smile. “I greet you,” McCree said.

“Forgive the…unusual request,” The Shimada said, much to McCree’s surprise. “I had wanted to meet the captain that would take my sons off-planet. I know that you have just eaten, but will you join us beneath the tree?”

On a low hill just past the bridge they stood on, was a large tree, its sweeping branches dripping with delicate pink flowers that fell like snow. From the delicate tie around the trunk, this was a special tree of the Shimada Clan—one of the ones approved by their Council to be pruned for the horns of its leaders. To see it—much less sit beneath it—was a true honor.

Honors upon honors. Something didn’t feel right to McCree but he could hardly protest.

“It would be the greatest pleasure and the highest honor,” McCree said.

Once more, The Shimada seemed amused by this—though that could certainly just be McCree projecting what he hoped to see—and led the way to the tree. The three Hanamurans sat down on their folded knees, their tails curling at their sides; The Shimada sat in the middle, with Hanzo at his left and Genji at his right.

“You may call me Sojiro,” The Shimada said through the translator and McCree’s head swam. To be invited to call the clan leader anything other than their title was an immense honor—one typically reserved for family. Even to know any name of a clan leader was an extremely high honor. 

McCree bowed his head in lieu of answering, unsure of what to say. 

Servants appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and placed low tables of tea and sweets. This did not follow any formula that McCree was used to seeing. Still, to have any sort of food or refreshment present meant that there wasn’t going to be any negotiations—or conversations that Hanamurans would consider negotiation—happening. 

He wasn’t sure if he was reassured by this. 

“My sons tell me that you have been to Hanamura before,” Sojiro said, delicately selecting one of the confections from the tray. Genji, as the youngest Hanamuran, picked up the heavy-looking kettle that resembled some kind of horned serpent coiled in the boughs of Hanamura’s famous pink trees and began to pour the tea. 

McCree bowed his head. Sojiro was served tea first as the Clan leader; McCree, as the guest, was served next. “I have, Clan leader,” he said. “I served the Ueoka Clan as a low-tier guard.” 

He didn’t add that though he was considered a “low-tier guard”, he had served directly under one of the Ueoka females. Given the importance of the female scientists on Hanamura, this was a high honor. 

“We know the Ueoka,” Sojiro said mildly. “My lovely mate—” here he used a common Hanamuran pet name that the translator oversimplified “—knows them well.” He side-eyed Genji. “My youngest son also knows them very well.” It was almost an innuendo and McCree nearly dropped the delicate mug in surprise. If he noticed, Sojiro mercifully gave no sign. “It is another reason that I am glad that you are taking them away before something indecent happens.” 

“Father,” Genji protested, tapping his sternum in a Hanamuran laugh. 

To McCree’s surprise, Sojiro turned to look first at Genji, then at Hanzo. There was an undeniable fondness in his eyes, a paternal love that apparently translated across all languages and cultures. 

Sojiro turned back to McCree. “That is why I wanted to meet with you,” he said. “I wanted to meet the man that would take my sons to the stars. And,” he added. “Whose soul harmonizes with my son’s.” 

Surprised, McCree put his cup down. He had been listening to Sojiro’s words in Hanamuran as well as the translation in Standard. The word that Sojiro had used did not match the description that the translator offered, but what he had heard—or had _thought_ he had heard—didn’t make much sense anyway. 

“I do not understand,” he said slowly. 

Sojiro gave him a surprisingly indulgent look. “You are human,” he said gently. “You do not hear the same music that we do.” Rude. “You do not hear the singing of soulmates and the music that they make when joined.” 

Soulmates. 

Fuck. 

This was entirely beyond him, beyond what he knew of Hanamuran culture. It was entirely possible that the translator had misspoke but he doubted it. At least, it offered the closest Standard equivalent, even if it didn’t seem to make much sense to McCree. 

He made the mistake of looking at Hanzo, who was watching him with a strange expression. That expression alone was enough to strike home just how important this soulmate business was. Hanzo’s gaze was eager, intent, and reminded McCree of an asteroid wolf eyeing food just beyond its reach. His ears were pricked so far forward that they trembled, as if he was trying to get McCree to understand by force of will alone. 

Still, McCree knew that honesty was the best policy here. “I don’t understand that word,” he said. “Humans...do not have such things. However…” he looked back at Hanzo, whose hands were clenched in his fine silk clothes. “I am willing to learn,” he said. “This is important to you. It would be rude of me to not at least listen and try to understand.” 

For a long moment, Sojiro watched him contemplatively. Then he bowed his head. “No father wants to watch their children leave,” he said. “But we must always recognize that at some point, they must leave us to live their own lives. This is why I have allowed them this opportunity to leave—against all arguments that our best and brightest sons will be leaving.” He turned to look first at Hanzo, then at Genji. Then he returned his gaze to McCree, who stared at him, surprised to be privy to such intimate thoughts. “I love my sons, and like any father, I only want the best for them.” 

McCree hesitated. He thought about the freedom in the stars and his mixed feelings about the _Overwatch_. He thought about Fareeha, who had grown up on the station and who loved it more than anything. Fareeha, who would do anything to keep the _Overwatch_ alive. 

He had the sense that Sojiro was the same way. He wanted the world for his Clan—and his sons. 

McCree bowed his head. “For what it’s worth, from a lowly pilot, I promise to do my best to help them get settled and make sure that they are well.” 

The Shimada watched him for a long moment. “You are hardly a lowly pilot,” he said. “You are The _Santa Fē_. You are the one that has come to speak with The Shimada, the one who has spoken so well, so properly with two of our sons. The one who sings with our greatest—” the term that was used for those considered to be the heir of the Clan, “—even though humans do not have the same song.” 

To McCree’s surprise, Sojiro got to his feet and bowed at the waist. 

_The_ Shimada, the male leader of the Clan, _stood_ and bowed... _to him_. 

It wasn’t a deep bow, but it was a bow nonetheless—an honor upon honor upon many honors bestowed upon him. 

McCree bowed his head to hide his wide, surprised eyes. When he looked up again, Hanzo had put his left hand against his cheek in a Hanamuran smile. 

“You are welcome here, _Santa Fē_ ,” Sojiro said. “You are welcome in our home, in our Clan. You are as our son, as our greatest.” 

Genji’s eyes had widened and strangely, McCree was comforted by that little bit of familiarity—it seemed that many cultures and species in the universe had the same surprised reaction. 

His own eyes were probably just as wide. He, a nobody former space bandit, had been called a son of the Clan—of Sojiro himself. Such names were not given lightly, if ever. 

He had been called one of Sojiro’s greatest—the Clan’s greatest. 

“You honor me, Father,” McCree said, struggling to keep his voice as level as possible. Such an honor was beyond him—he had no idea how to react—but he knew that he must acknowledge his change in status. 

When he looked up again, he found that Sojiro and Genji had both left, leaving him behind with Hanzo. He could just see the points of Sojiro’s horns and the branches adorning them over the bushes nearby as they walked away, and heard Genji speaking with his father in their native tongue. 

“So…” McCree said slowly, nearly forgetting himself. At Hanzo’s gesture, the translating device deactivated and he looked expectantly at McCree. “Does this make you my brother?” 

Hanzo placed a hand to his cheek in a smile; the angle of his hand suggested that it was amused, perhaps indulgent. “I hope not,” he said, less formally in Standard. “That would be weird.” Slowly he stood and extended a hand to McCree. “Come,” he said in the tone of someone that was used to obedience. “Let me show you the gardens.” 

McCree let himself be tugged to his feet and was surprised when Hanzo tugged him to walk beside him in the opposite direction that Genji and Sojiro had gone. 

“If I am not your brother,” McCree said slowly. “Then what am I?” 

For a long moment, Hanzo didn’t answer. He led McCree to a smaller pond filled with fish that had frills as delicate as fine silk. They clustered near the edge of the pond, their three bulbous eyes staring beseechingly up at them. 

_At Hanzo_ , McCree realized as the Hanamuran reached into a pouch in his fine robe and pulled out a handful of treats which he gently scattered into the clear water. 

“Come,” he said and offered a handful of the little pellets to McCree. To McCree’s surprise, he knelt at the side of the pond, uncaring that his fine silk clothes may be ruined by the damp grass and gravel. “Feed them with me?” 

McCree obeyed, holding out his hands for the pellets. A few of the fish eyed him suspiciously but the treats in his hands convinced them. After a moment, birds joined as well, fluttering on four wings to land beside the pond. At Hanzo’s nod, McCree scattered some of the pellets for them and grinned in boyish delight as some waddled closer to feed directly from his hand. 

“You have been to Hanamura before,” Hanzo said at last. As McCree turned to look at him, he watched the Hanamuran reach a hand into the water and pet the whiskers and shining scales of the fish. “But do you know this, I wonder?” 

They fed the animals for a little longer in silence. One of the four-winged birds even let McCree touch it, running his fingers over feathers that felt like silk. It had a long neck and a narrow face and trilled when he stopped petting it. 

“There are many things that I don’t know,” McCree said carefully. “I am almost fluent in your language, but there is always more to learn. There is something that I am missing here.” 

Hanzo hummed. “What does the world sound like to you?” he asked and McCree blinked. “You’ve heard people say it: humans don’t have the tails to make music. I know that you understood Genji when he said it earlier.” McCree turned and found Hanzo staring very intently at him. 

“It doesn’t matter,” McCree said without thinking. “I mean, it doesn’t matter that I can’t hear the music you do. It doesn’t matter that your music sounds nothing like mine. That will never be the common ground we share, but I can...at least try to understand. And we can always find another common ground between us.” 

For a long moment, Hanzo regarded him. Deciding that McCree hadn’t paid it enough attention, the four-winged bird left, strutting past them before taking off over the water. McCree wondered if he had said anything wrong. 

“Yes,” Hanzo said at last. He smiled in the Hanamuran way, tilting his head into it in a gesture of fondness.”You are very correct.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come and yell at me on Twitter at [dracodueus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus).
> 
> ~DC


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree always hated ceremony, but he could hardly refuse now, even if he needed to be decked out in silk and accessories that were expensive enough to buy the _Santa Fe_ nearly twice over. 
> 
> And after the Farewell ceremony...well, there was time for questions afterwards. Questions about soulmates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, the last chapter of All That We Were. IT transitions into All That We Are, and then will eventually have a third part which...well, will include Hanzo and Genji arriving at the _Overwatch_ and...well, what happens after ;)

There was a ceremony because of fucking course there was. McCree had expected it knowing just who he was taking away, but that didn’t mean that he had to enjoy it.

Still, he was fascinated by it all. Humans didn’t celebrate things the way that Hanamurans did, after all.

Hanzo visited him before the ceremony with a small army of servants. “Our father did not think to discuss this with you,” he said in Standard, using the formal “our” in the presence of the servants who laid out brushes, hair decorations, and a pile of fine clothes made in Hanamuran silk.

The silk alone was likely enough to buy a new ship, never mind the fine embroidery that had to be present (because though embroidery wasn’t quite considered an _art_ , it was still an honored “pastime” and a sign of status). In Standard payment, one article of Hanamuran silk clothing was worth more than what he was being paid to escort these young princes; with embroideries, which were never mass-produced and contained symbols tied specifically to the wearer and their Clan, and which was only made or worn for very special events, it was worth at least double.

Just seeing the folded cloth made McCree’s head spin.

Hanzo nodded his head and the servants bowed—once to Hanzo, then once to McCree—and left. The decorative doors in the Shimada pavilion slid silently shut. Hanzo turned to McCree and smiled in the Hanamuran way. “Are you well?” his tail curled and arched to show his concern.

“I am,” he admitted faintly. “It’s just…” he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but it’s a lot to take in.”

As much as he could “read” Hanamuran expressions, McCree thought that Hanzo looked sympathetic—or something similar. “ _I understand_ ,” he agreed, switching to Hanamuran as he gently lifted the pile of clothing that the servants had brought. In Standard, he said, “everything is moving so quickly.” He gently laid out the clothes so that McCree could see the rest of it. “Are you familiar with our embroidery?”

McCree cleared his throat. “To some extent,” he admitted. “But not a lot. I know it’s personal, and I had the honor of learning about the symbols. I was also honored by being taught briefly by Ueoka Umeko, but he…” he cleared his throat as Hanzo smiled kindly at him. “He deemed me unteachable. I still have scars from the needles.”

Then Hanzo made a sound that McCree had never heard a Hanamuran make. It reminded him of the low purr of a felid and he wondered if this was a less formal expression that he had simply not been privy to. He guessed that it might be a laugh, because Hanzo also gestured that he was laughing in the way that McCree was used to.

“Genji is better at embroidery than I am,” Hanzo admitted. “If only he could sit still enough to sew!”

He caught a hint of nervousness in Hanzo’s voice and smiled at him in the Hanamuran way. “I could use the practice,” he said. “If you are more comfortable speaking in your language.”

To his surprise, Hanzo seemed relieved. “ _I should practice Standard,_ ” he said in Hanamuran. “ _But I admit that I am… exhausted by it._ ”

“I understand,” McCree assured him as he moved at Hanzo’s gesture to look at the clothing. “Oh, _stars_.”

Hanamuran embroidery was an entire language of its own. Even those that specialized in xeno-symbology were often perplexed by it, and McCree had always guessed that it was a “language” that was only obvious to those that “spoke” it. But there were things that he could very easily read in it.

First, he saw the _Santa Fe_ , reproduced in remarkable detail on the left shoulder. In fact, the only “complaints” that he could give for its reproduction in metallic thread were details that would not be able to be properly rendered in thread. Given the honor of the left side in Hanamuran culture—all gestures and expressions of respect were done with the left—he was staggered. The entire left-hand side was rendered with silver stars and while McCree wasn’t certain of the position of the stars, he’d guess that they were relevant to either Hanamura (specifically the position of stars of the day that the _Santa Fe_ arrived) or the stars around the _Overwatch_ station.

Still, he knew that if he were to take a measurement to it, their positions would be accurate to a ridiculous degree—that’s just how Hanamuran art was.

The stars moved over the sleeve, moving from silver—a color of honor, as it was the metal with the highest electrical conductivity and thus the color that the Clan heads wore on their horns—to gold, the color of Sojiro’s sons that would travel with the _Santa Fe_ to the _Overwatch_. Now that he noticed it, he looked back at the embroidered version of the _Santa Fe_ and saw that it had been outlined in gold, a symbol of his “adoption”.

The collar was decorated with the symbols and knotwork of a Son of the Shimada Clan; the edge of the right sleeve showed that the coat was for a human who had honored the Clan. There were other symbols embroidered into the hems that McCree didn’t recognize and whose meaning eluded him—he had only seen such decorations on very rare occasions. One had been a wedding, where the entire wedding party (or a similar equivalent) had such embroideries; the other had been a funeral.

He was pretty sure that this ceremony was neither.

“ _Do you like it?_ ” Hanzo asked, looking as nervous as McCree had ever seen a Hanamuran—and he’d seen younglings frantically cramming for their first aptitude tests. He ran a hand over the silk as if unable to help himself. “ _I worked on it myself._ ”

Shocked, McCree looked up at him. “ _You_ did? This is _wonderful!"_ When the _fuck_ he had time for this, McCree wouldn’t know. He had only been on Hanamura for two days and the amount of work that had to have gone into this must surely have exceeded that.

But then, Hanamuran males were known for this art, so Hanzo would be very good at it. Still, this was…a _remarkable_ amount of work.

Hanzo ducked his head. “ _I am not as good as my brother,_ ” he demurred.

Shaking his head, McCree ran his hands over the embroidery. “This is finer than anything I’ve seen before,” he said honestly. “And I don’t think that I’ll ever see anything finer.”

“ _It is a gift that I had always dreamt about making for my—”_ there was that strange word again, the one that the translator had translated as “soulmate”.

He opened his mouth to ask but Genji poked his head in, scraping the delicate gold leaf coating his horns on the edges of the doorway. “ _Hurry up!_ ” he hissed in Hanamuran. “ _You will be late!_ ” Just as quickly he disappeared, the assorted charms on his horns jingling.

“ _He’s right_ ,” Hanzo said briskly. “ _You must get dressed._ ” He hesitated. “ _Do…you know how to wear these?_ ”

McCree’s face went red. “Um…not really.”

To his surprise, Hanzo wrung his hands in an almost human gesture of nervousness. “ _May I assist you? As a Son of the Shimada…_ ”

McCree made a face. “I forgot about that,” he admitted. “Alright, let’s do this.”

He had _planned_ on wearing his dress uniform, but obviously that was not good enough. Hanzo nodded and looked away as McCree pulled off his shirt and undershirt as if it was indecent. McCree didn’t say anything as he shrugged into the coat. It was lighter than he had expected, especially given the embroideries, and it sighed as it fell into place.

Hanzo’s ear flicked and he turned around, tugging the garment shut. It fell to his ankles with a short train that dragged behind him, and the sleeves fit him perfectly so that they rested at his wrists.

“ _There are usually more layers_ ,” Hanzo explained as he tugged it into place, folded the ends over each other, and reached for the sash and its decorative rope tie from which a small charm hung. “ _But it took too long to have all of them made. I will be sure to have more completed so that you have a full suit_.”

McCree sputtered. _More_ of this ridiculously expensive silk? That when worked, was considered some of the most expensive material in the galaxy? “You don’t—”

“ _You, as a Son of Shimada, need a full suit,_ ” Hanzo said firmly and that was that.

It was fair, though. Hanamurans showed status by the wrapping on their horns and, during special occasions, the elaborate embroidery that they wore on their formal robes. The embroidery on the coats were done by someone close—fathers for their newborns, husbands for new wives—while close friends or siblings might offer something smaller. When last McCree delved into Hanamuran fashion, albeit a few Standard years ago when he served as a guard, it had been fashionable for young Hanamurans to exchange small embroideries as gifts between good friends. The stronger the friendship, the more elaborate the embroidery.

So, given that Sojiro had named him a son and gave him the honor of calling him by name instead of his title, McCree knew that he needed to have a full suit. He just didn’t have to like it.

Hanzo fussed over the fine silk and then directed McCree to sit down. “ _I do not have the skill to arrange your hair as it should,_ ” Hanzo said distractedly. “ _And I am not familiar with human hairstyles._ ”

“Let me help,” McCree suggested. “I don’t think that I have the hair to do anything too elaborate, though.”

“ _We don’t have the time for that,_ ” Hanzo assured him. “ _And hair is not a large factor in Hanamuran dress. We are gaudy enough with our horns and tails and embroideries._ ”

It seemed that Hanzo liked dressing up about as much as McCree did and he was unable to help his smile. That would certainly explain the way his horns hung bare where the current fashion was to have hanging charms to show how well-traveled and well-loved a Hanamuran was. That would explain why his tail was extremely plain compared to the tail-harps of others that McCree had seen around the Shimada estate.

As a high-ranking Shimada, Hanzo would have received many of those horn-charms. He would have traveled to other clans, other planets in the system with which the Shimada did business. If he had any close friends, they would find a charm for him from the places they visited. These were typically made of carved and enameled wood to show that it had been a gift and that it wasn’t necessarily a given that the wearer of such a gift had been to the location. It was a message, he had once read in an article about Hanamuran horn-gifts, that said, “I see this beautiful area but all I can think of is you.”

It was sweet, McCree remembered thinking.

A common business-gift would be a charm for the horns, it had once been explained to him. An intelligent negotiator would give such a charm—made of glass or thin metal and tied in a soft material—that described the _area_ that the negotiation took place but not a symbol that was specific to either party. Giving a horn-charm with a symbol of the negotiating company was considered to be in poor taste, or an insulting amount of hubris—such a symbol given at the _beginning_ of the negotiations implied that the giver took it as a given that the receiver would agree with them and whatever terms they proposed.

All of it made his head spin even now. There was a reason that Hanamuran symbology was an incredibly specialized field—and why nobody devoted themselves to more than a very specific type of symbology. He knew some people that pursued Hanamuran tail charms as a hobby—a relatively common field of study—and from them, knew that there was an hierarchy in their fields dictated by the _difficulty_ of the symbology, with embroidery considered to be the most difficult for non-Hanamurans to understand.

Hanzo interrupted his distracted musings, picking up the brush that the servants had left behind and running it through McCree’s hair. “ _Are you mated?_ ”

“I am not,” McCree replied. Then he laughed slightly. “Some might say that I’m married to the _Santa Fe_ , though. I just haven’t found anyone as in love with the stars as I am.”

Hanzo hummed and seemed to process that information. “ _I can understand that,_ ” he agreed quietly. “ _It makes me a poor negotiator_.” Again, he made that strange purring sound. With his hands occupied and no way for McCree to look at him, it reinforced his theory that it was a kind of laugh, given the context of the conversation. “ _A lot of things make me a poor negotiator._ ”

“Not if you’re considered the best,” McCree pointed out quietly.

“ _By virtue of being my father’s son,_ ” Hanzo said dismissively.

McCree had no words for that. To argue too much would be considered rude; even more so for him, since he had only known Hanzo for two Hanamuran days. Instead he said, “I hope to one day see you in action,” he said.

“ _I would rather see the stars,_ ” Hanzo muttered, much to McCree’s surprise. “ _But if negotiating for the_ Overwatch _means that I can see more than the stars in this system, then it’s a small sacrifice to pay._ ”

They fell silent. Hanzo was gentle as he brushed McCree’s hair and the bristles were soft against his scalp, lulling him into a much more relaxed state.

“ _I cannot do much with your hair,_ ” Hanzo said. “ _But I do have decorations that should be added, since you do not have horns to decorate._ ”

There were fine clasps in gold and McCree made a face before he could hide it. Hanzo laughed in the Hanamuran way and with that strange little purr and McCree found himself smiling as well.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s figure this out.”

* * *

He didn’t look quite as impressive as the other Shimada did as they began their procession, but he at least didn’t stand out more than he already did. The Hanamurans towered over him and he had to be careful not to step on their long robes or their long tails dripping in charms, but it was easy enough when he realized that he would be walking beside Hanzo.

Strange that he was _beside_ Hanzo, and not in a line with the rest, but the last thing he wanted to do was argue and have it drawn out any longer.

He received the dubious honor of meeting the Elders, though, so that was interesting. Their faces were decorated in such a way that, combined with the copper wrapping on their horns, they appeared as if they were trees that had come to life.

They didn’t seem to like him, speaking above and around him as if he was an inanimate object. That suited him just fine as he stood still while they discussed amongst themselves whether he was worthy or not.

He was not theirs to weigh.

It seemed that Hanzo had reached a similar consensus and ordered them away. The Elders bowed to him—but not McCree—and walked away in an austere line.

When they walked into the meeting area, McCree was given a branch of those pink flowers to hold—metal, he was relieved to feel, but they were so light and delicate that it felt like he was carrying the natural flowers—and placed back in line with Hanzo.

There were a few guests present—despite having a ceremony for every possible occasion, Hanamurans didn’t typically enjoy _attending_ ceremonies in person—that were as decorated as Hanzo and Genji were.

He noted that Hanzo’s elaborate embroidery included the _Santa Fe_ , and a symbol that he recognized as the _Overwatch_ symbol “translated” into the language of Hanamuran embroidery. Genji’s also had this _Overwatch_ symbol, but he was missing the _Santa Fe_.

Curious.

Now that he knew what to look for after their conversation in his room, McCree noticed that Hanzo’s embroidery had stars featuring heavily in the designs. He hoped that Hanzo would get his wish to see everything he wanted to; he wished that he could take Hanzo with him on his adventures, and was surprised by the desire.

Sojiro and his mate—a surprisingly tiny Hanamuran by their standards—called the group to order. They had offered a translating device to McCree earlier but he had politely turned it down—as he was allowed to do now, without it being considered rude.

It was as boring as all other ceremonies went, and he was glad that Hanzo had very briefly described what was going to happen as they struggled with his hair and the shining golden beads that Hanzo insisted he wear.

Sojiro called the group to attention and explained—though nobody was surprised—that Hanzo and Genji would be leaving with McCree to go to the _Overwatch_. His mate spoke of sharing technology, knowledge, and kindred with the _Overwatch_ , since McCree was now their son. (Hanzo wouldn’t elaborate on this and McCree was ready to give up asking why.)

The Elders were called to speak and—unsurprisingly to McCree—they cautioned against releasing their two brightest stars.

To McCree’s surprise, the female leader of the Shimada interrupted them. She used that strange “soulmate” word and the Elders seemed aghast; the audience looked at each other as if this news was completely unprecedented.

Looking as if they had sucked on something sour, the Elders conceded.

The farewell ceremony was refreshingly brisk and McCree had to kneel and bow so many times that he could feel his knees and hips and back protesting. But to fail in this would be to lose face so he sucked it up and prayed that it would be over soon.

Sojiro asked him to care for their sons (using the plural form to refer both to the sons of his mate but also to reference sons of the entire Clan) and he agreed in his best Hanamuran. (Fortunately, “I will” in Hanamuran was among the easier things to properly pronounce.)

He’d attended such Farewell ceremonies before—the Ueoka Clan had also honored him with a small version of it when he had left their service—but the length and detail involved in such a ceremony was correlated to the status of those leaving.

So it was many Hanamuran hours before he was able to return to the _Santa Fe_ for a good rest.

Morrison stopped him in the airlock with garment bags and hangers. “You _will not_ toss that in your locker,” she hissed. “That is Hanamuran silk and you _will not_ ruin that. Sir.”

Sighing, McCree scrubbed a hand down his face. “I need help out of it anyway,” he admitted.

“ _Captain,_ ” Nox said from the nearest panel. “ _Shimada Hanzo is approaching the ship._ ” This wouldn’t be the first time that Hanzo had boarded the ship, but every time he heard Nox announce his arrival, McCree felt nervous.

McCree groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Let him in, Nox.” He looked meaningfully at Morrison and she scrambled away without prompting, slapping the button in the hall to close off the area in an effort to give them privacy.

A moment later, the doors hissed open and Hanzo appeared in the doorway. His ears swiveled and his eyes blinked as he seemed to slowly acclimate to the interior of the ship.

“Greetings,” he said in Standard. “May I come aboard, captain?”

McCree gestured. “You may,” he agreed in the same language. “How may I help you?”

“I realized that you may have difficulty undressing,” Hanzo said and his tail swung to show his uncertainty. “I apologize if I am… causing you distress.”

“Imposing,” McCree told him and watched Hanzo’s ears swivel and his eyes blink as he processed the word. “It means that your presence is causing me trouble. You do not want to impose; and I tell you that you are not imposing.”

Hanzo hummed as he processed that information. “I see,” he said. “I apologize if I am imposing.”

McCree smiled. “You are not imposing, I promise. Did you need something?”

“I wasn’t sure if you needed help… undressing,” Hanzo said. “But that is very forward of me to ask my—” again, that soulmate word.

“What is that word?” McCree asked before he could stop himself and Hanzo froze. He cleared his throat and tried to repeat the word back, but was pretty sure he fucked it up pretty bad. “The translator said that it was ‘soulmate’ but it didn’t seem…quite right.”

A peculiar expression crossed Hanzo’s face. He cleared his throat. “Will you…come with me?” he asked haltingly in Standard. “I…will be happy to answer all of your questions.” He cleared his throat and McCree realized that he was already dressed down, in his unadorned robes, the ones without the embroideries. “If you would like to change first, I can wait.”

McCree swallowed, but remembered that he still had his uniform on beneath the robes so he wouldn’t be _naked_. “Would you like to help?” he asked, trying to gauge Hanzo’s reaction. He had _offered_ , this was true, but McCree wasn’t sure how he’d react to being asked.

Another strange expression crossed Hanzo’s face. “If…you do not mind,” he said almost bashfully. “Unless there is someone else you would rather…?”

McCree shook his head quickly. “No, this is fine,” he said quickly. “I’d hate to ruin it. So what do I need to do?”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, much cursing, and with Morrison being summoned to help hang the garments, McCree was freed from the heavy robes. “How is it harder to get _out_ of these clothes than it is to get in them?” he asked and Hanzo made that peculiar purr-laugh as Morrison ducked her head to hide her smile. “Thank you, Morrison.”

“With your permission, captain, I will hang this in your quarters.” Morrison said, half saluting and half bowing in the Hanamuran style. At his nod, she walked away, the garments held in both arms to keep them from dragging on the ground.

McCree turned to Hanzo whose ears were twisted back. “Come,” Hanzo said in Standard. Then in Hanamuran, he said, “ _There is a lovely tree outside, and the weather is fair._ ” It was something said before a negotiation and McCree’s stomach twisted nervously. Then, to McCree’s surprise, Hanzo offered his hand to McCree.

It was a rare gesture among Hanamurans. They did not tend to touch, except mated pairs. Still, McCree rested his hand on Hanzo’s and allowed himself to be led outside. There was indeed a tree nearby and they cleared a spot to sit down and speak.

“So,” McCree said into the awkward silence. The trees whistled and the leaves whispered as pale pink petals fell around them. “This word.”

Hanzo bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Yes,” he agreed. “There is much to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come and yell at me on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus).
> 
> Thanks for sticking through this. I'm always happy to see people enjoying this. I can't wait to get to working on the next part...but first this stupid part for my computer needs to come in lol. 
> 
> ~DC

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed it! I'm having a lot of fun with this so I'm certainly going to write and post more of this. 
> 
> You can also find me on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). Feel free to come and say hi!
> 
> ~DC


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